The past few days have certainly lived up to the dramatic “end of training” I had anticipated. Things were going very average-day-in-Alarobia like until a few days ago when my host mom began crying at the dinner table. I had said a time or two before that “there are only a few days left here”, but that was the first time it was met with any response more emotional than a grunt or head nod. But this time, her tears were more emotion than I had liked to evoke. I didn’t know what to do in that moment. A part of me thought it was inevitable event that we all had to go through as part of the host family experience, the awkward goodbye. But I still had a couple more nights there. What had prompted this premature emotional display? I felt conflicted about what to do. I wanted to reach my hand over and covers hers. But I looked over at Rina and Fetrasou and their reactions made me curb my urge to comfort her. Their heads hung low, staring at the ground, in complete silence. She continued to weep, and I simply sat there, saying sorry over and over again. It was the only thing that I thought was appropriate. Or maybe it was the only thing I had the courage to do. I began to feel like a coward. This woman, who had sacrificed so much and worked so hard for my well being was sobbing at the thought of my upcoming departure, and all I could do was repeat some valueless response, like a gutless, thankless snob. The situation had called for some for of dignity, courage, thanks, anything. Instead, I responded with cowardess. It was something I knew I would regret for a very long time.

But my last days in Alarobia were not all somber ones. They were actually both more relaxing and went much more smooth than I had anticipated. One of the main reasons I thought it would be stressful is because we had our final language assessment, our goodbye community lunch, we had to pack up our lives and leave this town forever, and I had a speech to prepare. I was stressed the most about the last thing, and for good reason. I don’t even raise my hand in class because I don’t like talking in front of people, now I was expected to represent my stage in front of the entire communities of both Alarobia and Ambatomanga including the mayors, the Peace Corps country director and any other important people who our training director invited to watch the new vazaha embarrass himself. No pressure, right? But, luckily, that pressure was relieved somewhat once the language assessment was finished and I received my results. So once that was out of the way, I could begin participating in the end of training festivities, which included a party at a local, popular Malagasy man’s house. For this party, the man went to Tana to buy a goat the serve as meat during the festivities. Almost our entire stage was at the cheese shop next door to his house when his official goat slayer had arrived to “do the deed”, so he invited us to watch the slaughter. I debated shortly with myself about whether or not I should go with, and I ultimately decided to head over with the group. After a short, pre-gutting prayer, three men wrangled the unsuspected goat as one knelt behind its neck and slowly and rhythmically began sawing at its throat with a knife. Its legs kicked for about a minute and blood poured onto the sandy dirt. I couldn’t see exactly where the blood was spilling from since the goat’s throat was facing the other direction and the man with the knife was kneeling directly in the way. The goat had stopped kicking after a minute or so, and I thought it was safe to go around and get a better look at how this routine procedure actually went down. This didn’t seem so bad. I was expecting to be totally grossed out by something like this. I thought I had achieved something, whatever it was, by not fainting. But at this point, I was under the impression that the goat was already dead. I mean, blood had been pouring from its throat for some time now. I hadn’t imagined that killing a goat would take longer than this (I don‘t think I have ever imagined killing a goat, but, if I ever did). But as I walked past the men, around the goat to see the fatal wound, I saw something incredibly disturbing, at least compared to what I was expecting. As I walked around, I caught a glimpse of the goat’s eyes, barely open, ostensibly lifeless, but not dead. I saw the barbaric aspect of this ritualistic episode. Just the thought that this living thing had similar physiology to a human being; Eyes, ears, a heart a brain and so much more, was enough to make me second guess my carnivore status. But this thought was quickly replaced with revulsion. Even though the goat did not appear to be alive, it was still fighting for life. I saw the open wound, right across the neck, exposing everything from the tendons to the windpipe, which was still gasping for air. There isn’t much more sobering than seeing a living animal trying to fight an impossible fight for survival. It puts an entirely new spin on the term “sacrificial lamb”. I promptly turned around and headed back home. I did not have goat the next day at the party.

But I did not let that disturbing experience ruin my last days in Alarobia. My spirits were actually quite high. This was because, since I now had access to my computer, I had been watching Star Wars with my host family on a nightly basis. I knew that sharing this experience was something I had very much been looking forward to, but it was even better than I had hoped. My brothers’ eyes were always glued to the screen the entire time. It made me so happy and proud that they like it, that we could share this cross cultural experience. I did some explaining here and there (my family, of course, spoke no English), so it was cool to have them hear my commentary on the films. I was the only thing they could understand. It was, what we would call in Malagasy, mahafinaritra. It was also very fitting that we finished Return of the Jedi literally seconds before Rivo walked in and told us that our last dinner together was ready. The timing was perfect. It was a great way to end my home stay experience.

But the lunch before the day we left was a little more dramatic. Like the night before, I could tell that my mom was very emotional. After I practiced my kabary (Malagasy word for speech. People here are crazy about kabarys. There is an actual school were you study how to give them) on the veranda in front of my family, I noticed that she instantly retreated to the kitchen while the other family members gave me compliments on my speech and pronunciation and such. When we began eating lunch, my host mom was noticeably absent. When she arrived several moments later, it was obvious she had been crying. As she sat down, another emotional outburst hit her and she said “Azafady!” as she started to cry and stormed out of the room. I, once again, didn’t know what to do. Rina and Fetrasou were apparently unaffected this time, so I followed their lead. I said softly that I was sorry and they said “tsy maninona”, as they poured rice onto their plates as if it were any other day. When Rivo re-entered , she wiped away her tears and started putting food on her plate as she normally did. I could see that she was till on the verge of tears the entire time we were sitting at the table. So I decided not to engage her in conversation involving anything relating to me, the other volunteers or training ending. “The rice is good today”, I said, with a smile, hoping that this type of sarcastically generic comment would elicit some type of positive response. She agreed sorrowfully. The boys chuckled. But Rivo’s face remained worn and sad. I started to think about what I could have possibly done to make her feel this way. I mean, all I had done was given her family another mouth to feed and stolen their largest room. I was just a burden. Nothing more. I had thought that a part of them was waiting for the day when this burden would be taken from their lives. I couldn’t think of what I possibly could have done for her to think that my stay was in any way more beneficial for them than it was for me.

The next morning, the last morning, when Rina and I were walked to the soccer field for our daily run, a strange feeling overcame me. I had become very close with Rina over the past ten weeks. He definitely helped me the most with the language and with adjusting the to the culture. I remember my first night in Alarobia. He stayed up with me studying with me, listening to me trying to decipher what everything was in Malagasy. I can imagine the patience he needed to help me that night. I would not be where I am right now if it were not for Rina. But that day, both of us sensed that it was the last time we would be doing our morning ritual. We walked in unison, but didn’t say anything meaningful. We actually said less than we normally would. We just walked up the hill, casually, routinely. The side of the soccer field, which required me to take the ascending dirt path, was now just a skip and a jump for me. After ten weeks, things were just starting to feel right. But we were leaving that day. It was our last day in that foggy little town.

That morning at the training center didn’t feel much different than any other, even though the building was slowly being emptied out by us and the staff. We moved table and chairs to the town hall across the market for the obligatory big end-of-training gala. Everyone seemed very calm. Very ready. I wasn’t sure that everyone had experience the same over-the-top emotional display that I had, but everyone looked like they had all come to terms with the fact that within hours, we would be done with Alarobia for good and that no one was obligated to ever come back. Everyone seemed like it was just another day. But it wasn’t. We were saying goodbye to our families and our homes, and, oh yeah I almost forgot, I was slated to give a speech in front of a crap load of people. Even though everyone else was laughing and having a grand old time, there was little else on my mind other than my speech. I was nervous, to say the least. I was doing whatever I could to psyche myself out, or in, I don’t know directions. But what I do know is that when our training coordinator said my name amidst a hodgepodge of Malagasy words, my heart skipped a beat. And when I sat up and started walking to the front of the large hall, listening to the 400 plus clapping hands, I thought I was about to embarrass not just myself, but my stage-mates, my host family and the entire Peace Corps. But my fears ultimately weren’t justified. There were a few stumbles in the beginning, and even a voice screech that probably made everyone wonder if I was old enough to be a volunteer, but it was an amazing experience. One I will remember for the rest of my life. And as I was walking back to my seat, once again surrounded by a thunderous applause, I finally knew what it felt like to be a pitcher walking back to the dugout after pitching an amazing game, looking down at the ground, trying not to smile. But I couldn’t help it. The people definitely got a good look at my choppers.

Since my host family had already released a seas’s worth of tears, our last goodbye was much more casual, although Rivo got out of there pretty quickly in an attempt to keep the flood gates closed. The party wrapped up pretty quickly, and very soon after all of the guests had left, we were in the vans ready to head out to Montasou. And as we left Alarobia, I could hear the laughter of my stage-mates behind me, over the blare of my headphones. And when I looked back, I saw the faces of people who I have come to think of as family. And even though every other car ride had encouraged mild to severe sickness and I did have a box of chickens on my lap (it was only a matter of time, really), it was the most comfortable ride I had been on as far as I could remember. It was the most content I had felt in a long time. The places I had seen and the people I had met had far surpassed any of my ignorant expectations. I could not have asked for a better training experience.

Ticket to Ride - The Beatles

"You are the representation of the ideals that our country was founded on."

-Country Director Steve Wisecarver at Swearing In

(The 25 of us with the Country Director and the Ambassador)

August 18, 2007

(American Cultural Center)

From the Journal of Derek Rury

We have entrenched ourselves so far into this idea of integration, that it is sometimes hard to regrasp the notion that we are Americans who have volunteered to serve here in Madagascar. We have been taught over and over again what to do to become a member of the Malagasy culture, very similar to the programming of a computer. But we know why this type of integration is necessary. We are from an entirely different part of the world, with a very unique culture of its own. To simply drop us off here and say “ok….teach” would be a dissaster. We all understand all of the hard work our trainers have put into helping us and teaching us how to survive living in a foreign land for two years. It is especially important because there are certain things we wont have access to living in this culture. Certain things that we had become accustomed to, even took for granted. But we are done with training now, and I am proud to say that all of us are ready to serve here. We have aquired the necessary skills.

But through that reprogramming, you start to lose touch with your own culture. You start to lose the perspective you had before you left. Ten weeks of intensive language, culture and life training will do that to you. But when we entered the American Cultural Center in Tana yesterday, some of that perspective started to come back. The Center is like an English speaking oasis for travelers and press. There are also classes that are held there, with a full library, with books ranging from a documentation of the 1982 Chicago Mayoral election to Green Eggs and Ham, and a media center., filled with computers, listening stations and a TV with English cable channels. Walking in there was like a breath of fresh air, for two reasons. One was because we now had access to a resource we didn’t before. One that would help us get information about graduate school in the states, and also provide us with American publications that are all but impossible to get here. One such publication was a month old Sports Illustrated magazine that pulled me in like a tractor beem once I saw it. All of the information was outdated at that point, by American standards. But for someone living here in Madagascar, the magazine seemed like it was hot off the presses. As we walked through the halls, posters of random American cities decorated the walls. I never thought I would see a framed picture of Kansas City in Madagascar. But there it was. This seemed like the one place where we could be a part of our culture. We had been taught to eat, speak and live like the Malagasy people. But here felt like home.

The other reason the Center was refreshing was because here we were treated, not like trainees who’s hands needed to be held throughout the day. We were volunteers. We were Americans who had traversed the globe, put our lives on hold to serve. In a time of war, we were soldiers of hope. We were heralds of peace. As we walked around the center, peaking into classrooms, observing our culture through the lens of the Malagasy people, a unique sense of pride ran through my body. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t try to analyze how expensive it is for the Peace Corps to provide all it does for the 7,000 volunteers around the world. Is it really worth it? What is the Peace Corps really for? Does it ultimately make a difference? Or are we all just going through the motions? These questions run through my mind with great regularity, and I would be lying if I said I was completely convinced that our work here does make a difference. I am going to a small town called Beloha in one of the most underdeveloped regions of the world. How can my two years of service make any type of effect on the community. But being in the Cultural Center changed all of that, at least to some extent. Students there studied diligently, and the staff provided a long term plan for the use of English in the country. There was scope. There was a goal. Whether or not my work will lead to that goal, I’m not sure, but I know that I have to try. I know that after two years, both the Peace Corps and the Malagasy people will have given me so much. From financial and proffesional benefits to this entire unique life changing experience. I just hope that I will be able to repay them. And even though there is currently a sickness that is romping through my immune system as I type, after it was awoken after lying dormant by a neausea inducing bus ride, I must fight back. It is a strange feeling to know that if I were back home in Chicago, this sickness wouldn’t be anything more than a quick call to the nurse. But here, there is protocal for this situation much more extensive than the casual call to the local health facility. There is much more at stake. Since my site is a two and a half day brousse ride from the closest Peace Corps approved hospital, things might get a little dicey when my stool gets as loose as one of Jose Cantreras' curveballs. But we all have to put that aside. It's time to get to work.

Pride (In the Name of Love) - U2

July 31, 2008

(Volunteer culture)

From the Journal of Derek Rury

These past couple of days have been very unique, and I feel they are a window into how life will be for the next two years. I am currently aboard an airplane that is about to take off for Fort Dauphin, my banking town for the next two years. It's strange knowing that no one from my stage is around. Not only are they not around, but we are all dispersed around the country on site visit. it is the first time we have been away from each other since we all met. It's certainly not the end of the world, but it does feel strange. Saying goodbye to people before they left for Site Visit seemed like something nobody wanted to do, because it felt so odd. Also, I think we all got the feeling that this was the beginning of the end of our training together, which is in all ways but one an amazing thing. But we all know that our days together are numbered. There are people in my stage that I will only maybe three times a year. Like I said before, not the end of the world, but it will take some getting used to, especially since we have all had to band together through training. But now, our two years of service are about to begin, and that means a host of changes in what life will present. But since I was the last person to leave for site visit in our group, I feel that I have already had a taste. Another volunteer from our stage and myself had to stay another night at the Meva because our flights didn't leave until the next day so we were able to experience the separation anxiety together. But there were some other PCVs from other stages, even other sectors, staying at the Meva, for various reasons. So even though all of our stage-mates were already away on site visit, we weren't technically alone. There is an interesting volunteer culture that us trainees have seen flashes of, but have yet to fully experience for ourselves. Since the Meva is a transit house for all PCVs from all sectors, people from any part of the country could be staying there at any given time. Sometimes the PCVs know each other. Sometimes they don't. but the resulting interaction is very unique. It wouldn't be just to call the Peace Corps volunteer community a fraternity, because like I said, not everyone knows each other, and I am pretty sure that not everyone gets along. But there is a palpable sense of togetherness and respect between PCVs. Staying that extra night at the Meva gave the two of us a glimpse into that culture, and we felt for the first time that we were finally a part of it.

It was also cool just hanging out at the Meva with the PCVs. It was interesting to see the interaction between PCVs from different areas, stages and sectors. I didn't even know this really existed. But now I know it does, and it is very refreshing. Education volunteers aren't limited to befriending other Ed volunteers, and the same goes for the Health Environment and Small Enterprise sectors. This new perspective makes me excited to go down to site. There are about 12 volunteers who bank in Fort Dauphin (no one from my stage) and I anticipate that the next two years will bring me closer to them. Even though I have spent the last seven week with my stage-mates and it feels a bit strange to be away from them, I have a new community waiting for me down South. But I still know that all 26 of us are part of the much larger Madagascar PCV culture, and we're all in this together. All 140 or so of us. I can't wait to meet them all.

I Will Follow - U2

July 28, 2008

(Montasoa)

From the Journal of Derek Rury

We have arrived here in Montasoa, a massive Peace Corps summer camp of sorts, which happens to be on a gorgeous man-made lake in a temperate pine forest so similar to those in numerous places in the U.S. (Michigan, New York, Pennsylvania), that it is sometimes difficult to believe that we are actually in Africa. This place really could be the setting for an American summer camp movie. And it's packed with anything a camp in the U.S. would need; dorm rooms, mess hall, basketball and volleyball courts, and since it is located on the banks of a lake, canoeing. Ever since I have arrived here in Madagascar, I have taken every change to could to involve myself with anything that has even the smallest prospect of adventure. Weekly hikes up mountains. Late night clubs in Tana. Even spelunking (You know...cave diving) has found its way onto my "have done" lifetime list. So when the idea of canoeing popped up, I was eager to grab a paddle and row myself to Mozambique. Three of us guy trainees decided to check out the whole canoe situation right after breakfast our first day there. We walked with a purpose, shouting barbarically, "YEAH! CANOEING!". Ok. Maybe I was the only one shouting, and even though I pictured us all doing it, perhaps I too was the only one humming the Lord of the Rings theme song as we walked to the shore. But it was hard not to draw the comparison, at least for me. The setting was perfect. A vast lake with numerous covers and peninsulas just waiting to be explored, all covered in the Madagascar highlands mist, giving the entire area that unique mystique I had seen almost every morning above the mountains in Alarobia. Mountains covered by forests crept up the banks on every side. We could go anywhere. But before we actually got underway, we hit a snag. I was the last person to get into the boat and apparently our combined weight was too much for the boat to handle and we quickly found our canoe capsized just off the shore and the three of us drenched. We all scrambled to the shore, trying to avoid one of the numerous illnesses we were told we could get if we came into contact with standing water. We then looked at each other, and simply began laughing. There wasn't anything else to do. We weren't going to give up. It was actually a great experience. It was a rite of passage of sorts. We were going through the trials and tribulations of adventuring in a foreign land, and now we had been baptized in lake Montasou.

The two other trainees decided to go off on their own (a wise decision. Once we actually got out into the lake, the water was about an inch away from getting into the boat), so I had to seek out a new victim to share my next catastrophe with. Luckily, all I had to do was walk into the dining room and mention canoeing and people were eager to join, even though people were skeptical when they looked at my drenched pants. Luckily, I had learned from my first blunder, and we got of without a hitch this time. There is something both so soothing and frightening about being in the middle of a large body of water. It's both so natural and strange. It's hard not to appreciate the view of the water from the perspective of inside a canoe. It is almost as if you are on the same level as the water. From this vantage point, the lake's surface appeared like a blue-gray, silk blanket, blowing rhythmically in the wind, so smooth and so shiny. But that beauty is interrupted whenever you get a splash of water in your face from your boat-mate in front, but it was a great experience. We actually did some pretty cool exploring on our cruise. We found (well, found probably isn't the correct word. How about, ran into?) some ruins of a fire that could not have been too long ago. We also encountered one of the most peculiar structures I have ever seen. It was a small, three or four room house, raised up about 12 feet by four concrete pillar ten yards off-shore. It was literally a house on the water. The only way to enter the house was by a small, steep, and slippery concrete set of stairs that had no fashion of boat tying in site. After some deliberation (me convincing my companion), we decided that I should go knock on the door and see who actually was living this eccentric house. After a clumsy exit and a few door knocks, we deciphered that nobody was home and that meeting the old man in the house in the sea would have to wait.

We then decided to make one more landing before we set back towards the center. There was little boat traffic that day, but there were a few curious Malagasy boaters who were perplexed by the sight of us wearing bright neon life jackets when parading around the lake. A quick, broken Malagasy explanation of, "We have to. Peace Corps policy. You know. All that red tape.", and they seemed to understand. And because this whole Montasoa "camp ground" experience feels so familiar, I decided to try out a childhood favorite on one of the banks of the lake. So, I looked for the smoothest, flattest rock I could find, but all there I could find were jagged, oddly shaped red rocks. "Meh...", I thought to myself. I could skip anything. So, I picked one up, dipped my right shoulder and gave a heave. Not only did the rock make a loud "PLUNK" sound as it hit the surface of the water and immediately sunk to the bottom, but the sharp Madagascar rock had scrapped my fingers. Maybe that was its way of telling me that this wasn't your typical American summer camp. This, as a matter of fact, was Africa.

(Lake Mantasou - photo courtesy of Jessica)

(Weird water-world house)

Row, Row, Row Your Boat - Some guy

August 4, 2008

(Site Visit)

From the Journal of Derek Rury

Ok. Here we go. There is little doubt in my mind that the past three days have been the most interesting in my life. They have been my first Androy experience and my first glimpse of Beloha, my new home. It would be a lie to say that everything was amazing and that I never thought about how bad things could be here. Things were tough. Very tough. Things were tough in a way that I wasn’t prepared for. I was so excited for site visit and so ready (or so I thought) to become immersed in the Antandroy world, that I failed to think about what couple possibly go wrong. It turns out that I should have. Ok. Where to start?

I couldn’t believe the view of Fort Dauphin as we started our descent. I had never seen a more beautiful coastal landscape in my entire life. When we landed, we were welcomed by the amazingly warm rays of the sun. It was the type of weather that made it seem like there was no weather. As close to perfection as possible. This was the Madagascar I had always imagine. This was what it felt and looked like in my head. Blue-green ocean bordered by white sand, with green mountains watching not far off shore. Compared to the, now seemingly, bland high plateau area of Alarobia, I thought I had hit the jackpot. “This is my banking town?”, I thought to myself. Fort Dauphin, from what I’ve heard, is a town that has most of the amenities of a large town like Tana, but is not nearly as trafficked while also being exponentially more pleasing to the eye. I thought I had died and went to heaven. To compare Alarobia to Fort Dauphin would be like comparing Carbondale Illinois to Miami (sorry to any Salukis out there). I felt like the great vale that was hiding the splendor of the country had been lifted. It was now open for business, and my shopping list was long and thorough. But we only had enough time to get to the brousse station after our plane landed. My leisurely exploration of Fort Dauphin would have to wait ’till I come back.

Next stop, Beloha. But we had to get there first. And that meant the inevitable 14 hour, 2 day brousse ride. My only brousse experience had been the pseudo one the 26 of us took to Tana as sort of a trial run. But this was the real deal. I was in Fort Dauphin, and not any of my stache mates were remotely close. This was a big test. We arrived at the brousse station apparently far ahead of schedule, so we had to wait about 2 hours from the brousse to actually leave Fort Dauphin. Little did I know that this type of waiting would, very annoyingly, be a reoccurring them during our trip. But once we actually got going, everything seemed like it would go better than anticipated. The brousse was not close to being full. I actually did not have anyone sitting next to me (something that I thought was impossible on brousse rides) and the side of the brousse was almost completely open to the outside, something that proved invaluable for me considering my unwavering carsickness (there’s just something about being jam packed so where you can’t move an inch, over crowded, swelteringly hot, long car rides that my body just doesn’t like. I can’t quite put my finger on it). I had the wind blowing in my hair and my stomach didn’t even seem to notice what it was about to endure. “This isn’t so bad,” I thought to myself. The scenery was also unbelievable beautiful. I say unbelievable because it actually almost was. Madagascar is known for having unique both flora and fauna, but I didn’t know that they plant life was this bizarre. There were some trees that of course were your stereotypical African décor. You know, the type you would see in the foreground of some picturesque portrait of a sunset. The lone, leaning tree in the middle of a plain. But there were also trees I did not expect to see. Trees that were so unique, they looked like they belonged in a Dr. Seus book. Trees that actually made you think about how they came to be that shape and size. What natural demand or occurrence sparked that type of strange development. It was amazing to finally see what Madagascar had to offer. I was so proud at that moment, to be serving here. But then, I got a different taste of Madagascar. Our brousse stopped in a town about an hour outside of Fort Dauphin, and as soon as we stopped, we were swarmed with children holding up bowls of food. I quickly realized that this was the custom for a brousse of this size (we had hopped on the brousse that leaves daily from Fort Dauphin and travels to Toiler over the course of about four days). People were handing down money, and children were crawling up the sides of the brousse to exchange goods for Ariary. I found it a bit annoying how we were well on our way before we stopped, and now we were in a superfluous deadlock because some people wanted to buy some bread. I mean, we had just left, and we were parked for about 15 minutes. It seemed like such a waste of time. As it turns out, it wouldn’t be the only time I would be frustrated along the way. Not only did we stop for over 15 minutes, more people decided to hop on along the way, making the cabin more crowded. When I had to give up the spot next to me, I was a bit perturbed. But when I was squished against the hard metal side of the brousse after another stop and pick-up, I wished there was only 1 person sitting next to me instead of three. I was not comfortable. I couldn’t move. I needed something to calm my nerves, so I broke out the headphones. I had decided that using headphones seemed like a very counterproductive activity, since I both wanted to speak Malagasy with the Antandroy people and not seem like an ignorant “Vazaha”. But in this instance, I deemed it necessary. So for the next half hour or so, I rocked out to the likes of the Eagles, the Flaming Lips and Avril Lavine. It’s actually funny that I was listening to Avril Lavine because when we stopped to eat in a town called Amboasary, there was a giant poster of Avril hanging dangerously close to the staple painting of the son of god. I bet they weren’t explicitly asking for a comparison, but they inevitably got one, from me at least. When we boarded the bus again, I continued to zone out in my own world. I soaked in the scenery. I was getting in a better mood, so I decided that it was time to put the headphones away and spark up a real Antandroy convo. My target was the seemingly jolly, young, Malagasy man sitting next to me. As soon as I put away my headphones, we leaned over (not far. His head was about 4 inches from mine already) and said “salama”. We started talking. Once again, I was impressed by how well I could carry out a casual conversation with a Malagasy person. Malagasy people pretty much assume that if you’re white, you can’t speak Malagasy. So I take great pride when I see a Gassy taken back by how much I already know. “Efa Mahaie!”, they say. I love it when they say that. Pretty soon, my brousse funk had turned into a brousse groove. We stopped for a minute so that some riders could be handed some free sugar cane off the side of the road. One of those riders was my guy. During the entire trip, my guy had been holding a wooden stick that had apparently been carved and shaped to a certain size, the size of a small recorder maybe. But when he pulled the sugar care into the brousse from off the street he unsheathed a machete type knife from the instrument looking contraption and began hacking away at the branch, casually asking me to hold the other side as he slashed. Soon after, he was handing me a bare piece of sugar cane and demonstrating the correct way of eating said food. It tasted great. It is actually very similar to eating sunflower seeds, well, at least it shares a similar concept. You chew off a piece of the cane, suck out the sugary water, then spit out the then useless remnants. It was awesome eating sugar cane, casually, just like the other Malagasy people on the brousse, spitting over people outside the windows. Everything seemed to be going very well, and I was thinking about how I might actually look forward to my brousse ride to and from Beloha. But this would all change. When we arrived in Ambovembe, about the half way point in between Beloha and Fort Dauphin, it was getting dark, and I thought that this stop would be as long as all the others. I was wrong. We were stopped in Ambovembe for over and hour, during with, what seemed like twice as many people crammed into any open space they could find. The brousse was even more jammed packed than before. But like I said, my idea of personal space has long since disappeared, so the lack of squirming room didn’t really bother me. It was the fact that everyone was sitting in the brousse ready to go, while a handful of other people shot the shit outside. We were told that time isn’t as important in the Malagasy culture as it is in ours, and this brousse ride certainly proved that stereotype true. It seemed like we were never going to get to Beloha, and, as it turns out, we didn’t. When we actually began to exit Ambovembe, we were stopped by the Gendarme (the police/army of Madagascar) and were then instructed to retrieve our identification as an office climbed aboard the brousse, flashed lights in everyone’s faces and halted our trip for another half hour. I had never been interrogated by a foreign officer before, and let me tell you, I wish I could continue to boast that claim. We then had to sleep in Tsiombe that night. When we pulled up to a hotel and exited the brousse, I was in such a foul mood that I didn’t even want to attempt to speak Malagasy. I just wanted to eat and go to bed. Unfortunately for me, my counterpart had other things in mind. Tolisoa apparently has family everywhere. When we say down for dinner in Tsiombhe, we were graced with two of Tolisoa’s family members. What they were doing there and not in Beloha, I will never know. But what happened the rest of the night turned out to be a huge joke for everyone there, and I was the punch line. I’m not entirely sure what was being said, but there was a lot of Tolisoa talking, and everyone then looking at me and laughing. I occasionally attempted to retort, but my terrible mood prohibited me from thinking straight, causing me to speak broken Gasy, which of course, prompted even more laughter. I was feeling like shit. And the cherry on top of this whole disaster of a trip was that my counterpart, against orders from the Peace Corps Education sector head officer, had not made hotel accommodations for us. Instead we had to walk, in the middle of the night while it was pitch black (you haven’t experience pitch black until you’ve walked the streets of an androy town in the middle of the night), and knock on someone’s door to try and find a place to sleep. We ultimately did find something, and that was the first night I shared a bed with a Malagasy man.

The next day, I was still in a funk. It just seemed that things were not going anyway like the way I had hoped they would. I was uncomfortable. It was a feeling I had not experienced often, or at all, in the past few weeks, since I had grown so close to my host family. It’s also very discouraging to make big strides in terms of the language and adjusting to the culture only to discover that all the work I’ve done didn’t really mean anything in the real world. I mean, people were laughing at my Malagasy, and I stuck out like a sore thumb. When we arrived at the taxi brousse station that morning, I didn’t even want to talk to Tolisoa. He was trying to engage me in conversation, but I barely responded, if at all. It was my way of showing my displeasure with the entire situation. But luckily, I was sort of already accustomed to the taxi brousse’s tendency to start late, so when we actually did get going, my mind was able to process the fact that in only 3 hours (hopefully), we would be at Beloha, and I wouldn’t have to worry about any more taxi brousses, at least not for a day. I was actually enjoying observing the scenery as we drove on to Beloha. The main reason is because it looked oddly familiar. The Androy region is comprised mostly of desert, so you can imagine the typical desert scenery. Dry brush, the occasional dead tree, sand. But there was something there that seemed a little out of place. It was cactus. But not only was it cactus, it was actually Mexican cactus. During the mid 1800s, the French colonials in Fort Dauphin imported Mexican cactus as a defense against the aggressive tribes of the Androy. Unfortunately for the French, the Androy loved the cactus, and the region is still riddled with it to this day. When I first saw the cactus, a very strange thought popped into my mind. Here I am, going to the south western part of a country, in the middle of a desert, far, far away from all of my friends. Sound familiar? It does. Beloha is Madagascar’s Tucson. And this isn’t just some creation of my mind. It really is similar to a small Arizonan town. When we arrived in Beloha, it was hard not to draw that comparison. There is a main, wide, drag in the middle of the town, covered in sand, with saloon type shops on each side, occupied with people just sitting and hanging out, surrounded by Mexican cactus. It was weird. We went to go check out my house first, so we trudged through the thick sand that blanketed the entire town. It was strange to observe Beloha in those first few minutes. This was my home for the next two years, like it or not. This was the place that I had been trying to imagine for the past 6 weeks, and it didn’t really fit the idea I had in my head. But still, there was an odd sense of familiarity with Beloha. I felt strangely at ease walking the streets (I guess they’re not streets. Just like a massive beach with houses scattered around….and oh yeah. No water). Everywhere I turned, I was reminded of Tucson. When we arrived at my house, more like a shack actually, I noticed that the small compound in which I share with the school math teacher, was surrounded by a type of cactus that looked extremely similar to the suaro (a type of cactus that can only be found in the suaro desert, which is, for the most part, only located in Arizona). This was getting very weird. But this combined sense of ease and confusion was replaced very quickly with apprehension as we took a look inside my house. There were, apparently, two people already living in my small, two room shack. I was told that my house was just built for me, since this is a new Peace Corps site, and it might have been. But I didn’t think that it would be so quickly occupied before I arrived. It was a very unnerving feeling, seeing that my house was being occupied by other people. I had the idea that my first night in Beloha would be the first step in making this town my home. And me staying in my house would be a very important part of that. But it turns out Tolisoa had other plans. Also, the electricity that had been promised to my supervisor was not in any working order. The mental image of what I thought life would be like for the next two years was metaphorically falling apart in my mind. I didn’t know what to do. I was just so frazzled at that moment. I wanted to just pick up a phone and call someone, anyone, but I couldn’t. I don’t have a phone, and even if I did, I would need to buy phone credit and then figure out how to put it on the phone, then think of someone’s number that I knew by heart (I know my mom’s home number. That’s it) and then decipher how to actually use the phone to call someone. I felt completely powerless. Completely lonely. In the middle of nowhere Madagascar, with no means of expressing my disappointment, frustration and fear. This trip was not making a very good impression of what life is like here in the Androy. I was beginning to regret my decision to join Peace Corps. Thoughts that had never dared enter my mind during the first seven weeks of training slowly crept through crevices and found there way into my thought process, like a sickness they plagued my thoughts that day and night. Once they got in, it was hard to get them out. At times, they seemed like wisdom. Why should I have to endure this harsh life for two years. Would it really ultimately be worth it? Or would this town chew me up and spit me out, much as it had seemingly already started to do. Maybe this wasn’t a Peace Corps site until now because of how desolate and isolated it was. These things dominated my mind for hours that first day. But there were a few high points of my first day in Beloha. One was getting to talk to some of the townspeople. Since I knew that Beloha was my future home, I was a little more comfortable with my Malagasy, so communicating with people was my last problem there. Not only was a talking with them, they were all blown away by the fact that I could speak Malagasy. “Mahai!“ they would say, wide eyed. And then they would ask how long I had been studying for and when I responded with “Mandritra ny enina herinandro lasa fotsany” they were blown away. It was a good feeling. So, I was being guided around the town by a 2nd student named Joseph. He was apparently another family member of Tolisoa (I gotta get a look at this guy’s family tree). He seemed both very eager and happy to lead me around Beloha on my first day. First, we grabbed a bite to eat at the restaurant at the main intersection (and by intersection I mean where the most cattle traffic passes) on the main drag. I was a little perplexed by the Allen Iverson 2006 Chinese calendar hanging on the wall, but not nearly as taken back by as the full length Britney Spears poster that hung like a self portrait of some dignitary in his study. This is what I am talkin’ about. These are my type of people. I could get used to this. After lunch, rice and sausage, we walked over to the Lycee’. This was probably the highlight of the first day. I got a really good look at the place I will be working at for the next two years, and I have to admit, that I was impressed. Compared to the facilities in Alarobia, the Beloha school was more spacious, well kept (despite the lack of a roof over the library. A strong wind blew it off about a year ago. And you know how hard it is to get a good roof guy) and actually had electricity in most classrooms. I was looking forward to working there. There was also a basketball hoop in the middle of the field that is surrounded by the C.E.G. on one side with the Lycee’ on the other. I pictured myself leading a class, walking up and down the isles, then telling my students that it was time to play basketball as they all burst through the doors and we engage in an exhausting raucous game of B Ball. After we saw the Lycee’ we walked over to meet the C.E.G. English teacher. We strolled over to another compound, much larger, and knocked on a door. “Mondroso”, a female voice replied. I then met Fara, the 6eme English teacher. We casually talked for about a half hour, and I tested out her English (not very good. I’m sorry), as she tested my Gasy. It was a great exchange. She was both extremely nice and gracious. I am certainly looking forward to working with her. After we were done promenading through this Tombstoned styled town, I headed home for a little rest. So I broke out my laptop and decided to test out the sensation of listening to music in my new shack of a home. I rocked out to some Beatles, some Eagles, some John Coltrane. It felt amazing. Just laying in a bed, in my house, in the middle of Beloha, doors open, blasting American music, being the only American for probably hundreds of Kilometers. Did I say it felt great? It did. But it didn’t last for long, and I was soon back in the funk that had ruined my first impression of the region. This funk was caused by my sleeping situation. Tolisoa had agreed to let me sleep on one of the beds that was already in my house. This was great because I didn’t want to have to crash at his place. This was my house, I mean, I should be able to sleep there, even though the light switch didn’t work and I needed to unscrew the light bulb it when I decided to fall asleep. But this proved difficult for a couple reasons. One was the lizard that had decided to shack up on the side of the wall next to the light bulb. I guess he thought he could catch some artificial rays as he napped. Another was the giant moth that shared the same idea as the lizard. So after a few tries of grabbing the hot light bulb and avoiding the lizard and moth, I had darkness, and I was ready for bed. But the people of Beloha apparently had other plans. Music blasted for at least another hour. Some stray dogs also decided to add their own piece of the symphony. It was more than enough to keep me awake and think about if this is how things would be every night.

When I woke up the next day, very happy that my mind had actually blocked out the itchiness of my brand new flea bites, I soon realized that the lizard, the moth and the fleas weren’t the only things sharing this tiny room with me. I heard a loud “COO!”, and I assumed that the noise was coming from outside. But when I heard it again, there was no ignoring it. So I leaned over the side of the bed, only to see a black chicken caught in the wire of my MP3 player’s headphones that were dangling off the side of the table next to my bed. At this point, I wasn’t even mad. I simply grabbed the headphones, tugged until it was free, opened the door and layed back down. Joseph was already waiting outside and when he saw the chicken flee the premises, he looked shocked and embarrassed. I didn’t really care anymore. I was just thinking about getting back to my stachemates so I could tell them about this rude awakening I just experienced. But I still had another 2 day, 14 hour brousse ride to endure, and this time, I would be alone (whether that was better or worse, I wasn’t sure). So I thought a morning walk would lift my spirits, and as it turns out, it was the best thing I could have done. Even though it was chilly at night, the morning sun had already warmed the air. I decided to give the ladousy a try. When I opened the door, I noticed that a spider had been guarding my shower for me. So after I disposed of my little watchman and its large, and surprisingly durable web with a stick, I went in. This was the type of shower I was expecting when I thought about service in the Peace Corps. The kind you see the soldiers use in Vietnam war movies. The kind of shower that only comes up to my shoulders. It was actually kind of neat. Also, there is a huge difference in climate between Alarobia and Beloha, and since my dousy in Beloha is open to the elements, I was showered with the warm rays of the Androy sun. It was divine. If you’ve never showered outside with the sun warming your body, you haven’t lived….. in a third world country probably. So after my refreshing shower, I was ready for my walk. Just like the day before, I was having great conversation with the townspeople. I felt like I was laying the groundwork for my two your habitation here by going around and just shooting the shit. It felt great. Especially when I told people that I would be living there for two years (the only “vazaha” looking people that these people see are French and they come and go very quickly, and they certainly don’t speak Gassy), their eyes light up and they give a big “OOHHH!”. That always feels good. I was also enjoying my natural surroundings in Beloha. Just like the brousse ride, there was so much unique flora in Beloha. Trees that looked so unique, it was impossible to not take pictures of them. There were a few trees that looked very similar to the famous Madagascar Boubab, but they actually weren’t. So I asked a family that was cutting and sorting some sort of Octopus if there were any Baobabs in Beloha. They lent me their two children to guide me to the closest one, which was about 500 yards away. I made chit chat with the kids (10 and 12, I think) and told them that I was going to be the new English teacher. The little boy laughed. But this was a good laugh. It was a happy laugh. We ran into Tolisoa along the way and he seemed to be a lot more relaxed that day. He joined us on our quest for the Boubab. Along the way, we would encounter people, and Tolisoa would introduce me. Blah blah blah blah blah “Vazaha”, they would say (I could pick out some of the words here and there, but that one always sticks out like an out of tune note). Tolisoa would respond, while holding my shoulder and smiling, “tsy vazaha izy, fa Antandroy.” My smiled brimmed with pride. We continued to walk and entered the more rural part of town. This is where the “real Africa” that the other PCVs were talking about was. The Tandroy here are legit. They lived in huts and wore nothing besides cloth covering their “areas”. But of course, they were all part of Tolisoa’s family. Talking with these Tandroy made me more proud of myself than any other time during my, thus far, short service. This was it. I was having a conversation with an African just like I had always imagined. It was, for lack of a better word, awesome. When we finally arrived at the Boubab, I saw that it had long been dead, and was now surrounded by the Mexican cactus that grows all around town. When I saw this combination of cross cultural vegetation, I thought about what it symbolized for me. If there is any one image that I have seen that would represent my adventures so far in life, it would be this. I thought it seemed eerily perfect that the lone Boubab in Beloha was guarded by the very cactus that I saw everywhere I went when I lived in Tucson. I have two years to figure out exactly what that symbol means.

When we were done with our obligatory Beloha tour, I tanked my two young friends and headed to the same restaurant I had already visited twice during my stay. I needed to get in a good lunch before I parked myself in front of the taxi brousse station to wait for the Toliar to Fort Dauphin brousse to pull up. I grabbed my journal from my house, and when I arrived at the restaurant, I pulled up a seat outside, ordered some rice and beans and started writing. There were a few kids around the restaurant and we quickly sparked up a conversation. It felt very rewarding how comfortable they already felt around me. The last thing I wanted to do was present myself as an unapproachable vazah, and judging by the kids looking through my journal trying to speak English and by the toddler hanging off my arm, I am pretty sure that I hadn’t. After about a half hour of writing outside of the restaurant, I looked up to see two vazah-looking people quizzically examining both me and the small crowd of kids that looked strangely at ease around another foreigner. “Bonjour”, I said, and they replied the same. I started speaking French, but quickly realized that the foreign language processing center in my mind was now completely overtaken by the swiftly invading army of Malagasy. So I simply said, “Je ne sais pas Francais tres bien. Je suis desole.”, with which the man replied, “how about trying English?”. I was taken back, perhaps in the same way Gasy people are with me sometimes. I was so excited to speak English with someone for the first time in almost two days. They took a seat at the table across from mine and explained that they were from the French island of Reunion, which is about 600 miles off the East coast of Madagascar, and that they had been here for four weeks already, traveling in a car along the southern tip of the island. But the most interesting piece of information was that the reason that they were in Beloha was because their car had broken down. So they needed to stop and fix it before they continued on their way. “Where are you headed?”, I asked. “Fort Dauphin. We should arrive there tonight, if our driver can get our car fixed.”, the man said in perfect English, but accented with the stereotypical French, nasal tone. Every single cog in my tiny brain began to move at once. Like a newsroom when there’s first word of a huge story, and every single person darts in a different directions, scrambling to get somewhere before anyone else. My body perked up. “I am actually slated to take the next taxi brousse to Fort Dauphin today”, I said in a way that implied that I would much rather go in their roomy, all terrain vehicle than a loud, slow, crowded taxi brousse. They quickly offered the ride, and even quicker, I accepted. It was difficult to contain my exuberance. Both from circumventing the return brousse ride, and also about the idea that there I was, sitting outside a small restaurant in Beloha, writing in my journal, talking to kids hanging on me in Malagasy, and I was about to hitch a ride with a random French couple across the southern tip of an African island. There were a few people I wished could have seen me in that moment. There were few other times in my life, that I could remember, if any, when I felt more alive. But this hightened feeling of vigilance was boosted even higher, because even though the French people had taken a seat across the isle from me, the Gasy children were still sitting at my table, their attention still on me. The young waitress left her seat across from me to take their order, which she did in almost perfect French. It was impressive. After she took their order, she looked at me and I asked her if I could have some more beans, in Malagasy of course. I could tell that the French couple were very surprised by this, especially when I continued to talk and make jokes with the kids around me. “You speak Malagasy?”, Julienne, the French man asked confused. “Yeah, but I’m not fluent or anything, yet.”, I responded. “How long have you studied?”, he asked next, now showing great interest. “Six weeks, in a town called Alarobia just outside of Tana,”, I replied. Both of their jaws dropped. Neither of them could believe it, and I spent the next 15 minutes explaining the Peace Corps and the type of work it does, it’s extensive language training program and how I am just one of about 7,000 American volunteers serving around the world. They then asked how long I would be living here and what I would be doing. “I’ll be teaching English for two years.”, I said. It was a very unique feeling I got when I saw them both blown back by that statement. They couldn’t seem to wrap their heads around the idea of an American living in a place like Beloha for two years teaching English. At that point, I also though about it, and just like numerous other thoughts I’ve had about living here, it made me smile.

After their vehicle’s transmittion was fixed, we hit the road headed for Fort Dauphin. The once 14 hour brousse ride turned into a seven hour, enlightening conversation filled cruise type drive. There was an interesting language dynamic in the car. Both Julienne and Claire, the French woman, spoke French, obviously, but also spoke English. Andre’, the driver spoke both French and Malagasy. But I was able to speak all three (to some extent anyway). If it weren’t for Claire’s fluency in Spanish, I would have won the “most linguistically inclined” award in the car. Once again, I wish some people could have seen me in that moment (my high school junior year French teacher being one of them). We talked about everything from Barack Obama to teaching in France. For them, I assume the seven hour drive was tedious and boring at times. But not me. I was ecstatic to not be on that damned brousse. Each town we passed, I tried to imagine my rage as we would stop for a completely unnecessary amount of time. Now, I just smiled.

As we neared the city, Julienne and Claire asked me about what I was planning on doing once we arrived in Fort Dauphin, since I didn’t have a phone to call the volunteer who lived there. I told them not to worry, that once we were there I would figure it out. I was just so numb with happiness and appreciation, that my mind didn’t calculate what I actually needed to do once I got there and the probability of that actually happening. So when we did arrive in Fort Dauphin around 9 p.m., I was left standing on the Rue Principal, with no phone, no credit, and no prospective place to stay if I couldn’t somehow contact the other volunteer. My thoughtless plan had very quickly crumbled. The hotel that Julienne and Claire got a room in didn’t have anymore once that procured their own, and there wasn’t another hotel in sight, and since this was all I had ever seen of Fort Dauphin, anything out of my sight might as well have not existed. I was lost. I began asking people where I could by phone credit. Luckily, a young Malagasy man decided to help me in my quest. We headed down the road, past restaurants filled with vazahas, drinking, laughing and enjoying themselves in the very spot I thought I would be in at this point of the night. Instead, I was frantically scurrying through the streets, carrying my 40 lb duffle bag, with fear quickly creeping up my spine. I started to flip out. I began snapping at my new Malagasy friend, something I immediately regretted because if I lost him, I wouldn’t have anything. I would be sleeping on the streets that night. We eventually found an Epicerie as it was closing and I bought as much orange as I thought I would need that night. Unfortunately for me, my Gasy friend did not have an Orange phone that I could use, but he did offer to seek out someone who did. In the minutes he was gone, I examined how quickly things had turned for the worse. I couldn’t even think about what would happen if I couldn’t eventually find the volunteer’s house or a hotel that would take me in at this time of night. I didn’t want to think about it, especially since there was a possibility that I would be Administratively separated (I don’t think the Peace Corps likes their volunteers sleeping in the gutters of major towns). When my friend returned with a friend of his own who owned an Orange phone, my spirits got a shot of energy. But that energy was quickly subdued and that same fear that had started to plague my mind had returned after each attempt at calling resulted in the same recorded French babel that ended with “desole”. I couldn’t completely understand, but I knew it couldn’t be good. I then decided to thank my friends, flag down a taxi and head down to the Centre’ Ecologique, wherever the hell that was. After trying to negotiate a price with my very, at this time of night, intimidating taxi driver, I said to myself “fuck it” and got in. I explained my situation, that my American vazaha friend lived in a house at the Centre’ Ecologique and that maybe all we had to do was go down there, ask some people where the new vazaha lives, or simply yell out their name (like that wouldn’t make me look crazy). As we drove around town, my heart began to slow its once freakishly fast pace, but my mind would not stop racing. As we drove, I could see glitters of moonlight reflecting off of what I later discovered to be the Indian Ocean. The Indian Ocean was something that represented the exotic nature of this adventure, and was something I hadn’t yet had the opportunity to fully appreciate. But I only saw a vague outline of the sea. It was still covered in darkness. It was so close. But I was actually so lost that it actually could have been 10,000 miles away again and I would have had the same chance of stumbling upon it. My life seemed like it was in fate’s hands that night. I had tried everything I could, including banging on someone’s door and bedroom window around midnight after a false alarm vazaha report. I had given up all hope. We had traveled from bar to bar, looking for someone who knew where the vazaha lived. At one point, two drunk Gasy girls entered the taxi and I thought that my driver might let them in as a fare and carry on the rest of the night as he normally would, taking me to parts of Fort Dauphin that would severely decrease my chances of either not getting robbed or not having a nervous breakdown. But my driver actually turned out to be not so intimidating, but rather extremely helpful. He would dart in and out of bars, asking people if this American could use their phones. He even wandered into some backyards, asking questions to people he had never met before. After a few failed inquiries, I merely said “Do you know of any hotels that would have a room right now?”, fully expecting him to chuckle, say no, stop the car, take his money and be on his way. Instead he said “Yeah. I know a place.”. I began to hope again. We pulled up to a building that looked like a southern plantation owner’s home; white, about three stories tall with pillars leading up to the roof in front of the large front door. As we walked up, the wide hallway was lit up, booming with laughter and life. It was certainly a welcoming sight. For some reason, I instantly knew that I would stay there that night. I didn’t care if the didn’t have any rooms, or if I had to sleep underneath their old fashioned front desk. As it turned out, they did have a room. The last available room actually, and I was very pleased to hear the hotel owner tell me this in almost perfect English. He then promptly showed me to my two-bed, second floor room. I dropped my bags on the floor as I noticed the two outlets on the wall (all of my appliances had long run out of juice). Then we headed down the extremely high, wide, welcoming hallway to a patio that led to the bathrooms. “Misy rano mafana.” he said pointing to what looked like an actual shower. He then said goodnight and left me to my own devices. I stood there in the bathroom for a moment, silently screaming in relief. I then took a glance at my face for the first time in two days in the lone hanging mirror over the sink. It was completely covered in dirt. It was so filled with sediment and soot, there were dark circles surrounding my eyes, giving me the visage or a raccoon. This was no doubt caused by the seven hour car ride through the desert with the window down. I didn’t care. I went back downstairs to look for some food (I hadn’t eaten since I first encountered Julienne and Claire in Beloha, what seemed like days ago). The hotel owner pointed me down the hill to another hotel. As I entered, I could tell that this was not your average Madagascar place of sleep. I had not seen a nicer hotel before in this country. I quickly discovered that the restaurant was closed at that hour, but I also noticed the there was a computer sitting unused in the lobby. I strolled over to the bar, bought a large, cold T.H.B., popped a squat in front of the computer and crossed my fingers. Bingo! Free internet. I surfed until I almost passed out. When I returned to my hotel that night, I watched a movie in my big, flea-free, Peace Corps-paid-for, comfortable hotel bed until I fell asleep. When I rethought about what had transpired that day and would prospectively could have happened, I pulled the blanket tighter and gave a soft chuckle.

The next day, as I walked down the hill from the Centre’ Ecologique, I didn’t even thing about the previous day, or even my trip to Beloha. I simply took off my shirt and baseball cap and slowly walked into the Indian Ocean. And even though it was incredibly cold, it was even more refreshing. Just as he darkness of the Ocean had now been removed, any negative impression I had of the country had been lifted. I had taken everything it could throw at me, and now I was basking in my reward.

(My massive taxi brousse)

(Crazy tree in Beloha in front of the lone cell phone tower in town)

(Another crazy tree)

(My house in Beloha for the next 2 years. I live in a shack)

(And poop in this hole)

(Canoe on the beach in Fort Dauphin)

(Shipwreck cove - Fort Dauphin)

(The reef at the beach in F.D.)

(Kids playin' on the reef)

(Sunset reflecting off the beach)

(Palm tree on the walk home at dusk)

Times Like These - Foo Fighters

July 28, 2008

(Beatles with the kids)

From the journal of Derek Rury

I guess you know you've done something cool when you've played the guitar and sang a Beatles song with kids half way around the world from your home. They provided the beat, via hands and feet, and I provided the tune, via a miniature guitar we had to finagle away from the town doctor. But what we produced was emotioanlly electrifying. It is one of those things that is expinentially more powerful in real life than how you imagined it in your mind. To be in that moment, feeling more alive than ever before. To put into motion and idea. To live an ideal. To fulfill a dream. And all it took was a Ticket to Ride.

A Spoonfull Weighs a Ton - The Flaming Lips

Here are some more posts and pics hopefully. Sorry if the dates are a little screwy. But you're all smart people. You can piece it all together. Enjoy!

Changes - David Bowie

(Pictures work again!!! I'll put some more on this weekend before I head down to site. As for now, I have a date with the toilet. This is a Malagasy Decoration on their Independence Day in Alarobia)

(Rina, my host brother, and Housana, my host nephew)

(My homestay house in Alarobia)

(Gotta rep' the lemurs! A ringtail at the Zoo in Tana. I have yet to see one in the wild)

(Yeah, that's right. They sell scorpions at the market here)

July 28, 2008

(Beloha Baby! Meeting my counterpart and the beginning of my Androy life)

From the Journal of Derek Rury

Today was one of those days that doesn’t come around very often. The type of day where you know things are going to be different from there on out. Today was the day we met our counterparts from our sites. Until today, our Madagascar experience was only what we had seen in Alarobia, a small rural town in the highlands of Madagascar. But today was the first step in the long journey we all have to take. It was a step away from each other, and towards our new lives. The lives we will have at our sites. We have become so accustomed to life in Alarobia, but in reality, training is only a tiny fraction of what comprises our service. It’s funny to think about how it seems that we have spent so much time at training, but we still have two more years to live at our sites. And for some of us, our sites are nothing like the small, quaint little highland town that we live in now. I am definitely one of those people. I will be going down to the dirty south, to a town called Beloha. There were rumors that Madagascar was the furthest Peace Corps site from the states, and if that is the case, there are only a handful of volunteers out of all 7,000 around the world that are further from US soil than I am. It’s pretty exciting. But the Androy region of Madagascar is well known for having a very unique culture. The men there are supposedly taller and stronger than others on the island, with more defined facial features and darker skin. They are also known for having more intense personalities. These personalities are displayed by massive cattle slaughtering and public sexual performances during large community celebrations. Yeah. They’re intense. So that’s why I was a bit anxious to meet my counterpart. We all gathered in the mess hall and we tried to figure out which Malagasy person belonged to which American volunteer and vice versa. It didn’t take long before I saw a man saying “Beloha? Androy?”. This was my man. He was tall, for a Malagasy. Dark skin. High cheek bones. He was an Antandroy if I ever saw one (I hadn’t, but I am reading a book). We sat down, and the long conversation that included crucial information about the existence of a toilet and the possibility of the town getting the internet (I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I am crossing my fingers) began. It was amazing. I was talking with an Antandroy man. The type of man that I will be surrounded with for the next two years, deep in the rural south of Madagascar. There is so much culture in the Androy region, and I saw flashes of that culture in my counterpart. He was intense. The way he ate. The way he spoke. It was intense. But in that intensity I saw a gentile side. Like a flower that grows in a desolate desert (the Androy region contains both the spiny forest and desert terrain). But I can see why that rough and tough exterior is necessary for an Antandroy. Life can be tough down there, from what I’ve heard. It is probably one of the poorest parts of the country. A part that is still rich in ancient, African influenced traditions, like cattle stealing and witchcraft. But just like in my counterparts visage, there is a combination of the harsh and the gentile. When he smiled after I told him I would try to convince my superior to let me teach Terminale’ (the highest grade in the Lycee’), I saw the part of the culture that comes out when people try to look past it’s seemingly harsh exterior. The part of the culture I wish to immerse myself in for the next two years. When I can hopefully, with of course some necessary rite of passage, call myself an Antandroy.

Ramblin' Man - The Allmand Brothers Band

July, 23 2008

(Being a teacher)

From the Journal of Derek Rury

I just had my first exam proctoring experience and I have to admit, it made me feel a tad uneasy. I never thought that I would be the person ominously overseeing a test, silently lurking in between desks, hovering over shoulders. But I wasn’t so much checking to see how the students were doing, but more so how I did as a teacher, checking to see whether or not I had taught them well enough to answer correctly. I had never really been accountable for any sort of teaching or tutoring, but here, my work was itself, being tested. It was a bit frustrating and discouraging to look over a student’s shoulder only to see that he had could not express that Clark was taller than Lois and that Lex was older than Clark (we learned descriptions) despite my uncanny, four color, stick figure visual aide. In my defense, Lex had a beard and a cane. A cane! People with canes are old. It’s universal. And even it it’s not, it’s certainly known around the world that a person with a cane is older than someone who doesn’t. It’s merely science. Oh well. Perhaps my artistic skills aren’t what the used to be . But that wasn’t the only unnerving part. I think I was more weirded out by the emotion of sympathy I felt for the students. I mean, I had always imagined what it would be like to be the teacher. The all knowing, all powerful teacher, who spends every second figuring out ways to torture students. When I was a student, I wanted to experience that power. I always knew that the teacher could feel any sense of uneasiness I gave off, and my impression was that they fed off of that, it gave them strength, like how Superman draws his power from the sun. This impression was based on the theory that all teachers sought out to destroy student’s lives. But now that the proverbial shoe is on the other foot (not a phrase that’s used much here, because it probably doesn’t apply. Less than half of the students in class today were wearing some form of footwear), I know that none of that is true. I felt for my students. A part of me wanted to be one of them, in that instance. That’s because a part of me will always be a kid. A part of me will always be a student, rebelling against the tyranny of my teachers. Hopefully I can be a teacher that won’t elicit that reaction. Hopefully I can be the kind of teacher I always wanted as a student.

Another Brick in the Wall - Pink Floyd

July, 23 2008

(First package)

From the Journal of Derek Rury

I never thought that a taste had the power to transport my mind to another time and place, but I was proven otherwise when I stuffed a handful of frosted flakes into my mouth just now. I just received a packed from back home. My first (and hopefully not last). It was packed with all sorts of goodies, not the least of which was a pre packaged serving container of frosted flakes, my #1 vice back home. After I sifted through the contents; protein bars, peppermint candies, sunflower seeds, I tried to think about how difficult it would be to actually get my hands on these things here, if I even could at all. My initial reaction was not to eat them, but rather use them as a reminder of both what amazing people I have in my life, to send me all of this stuff across the world, but also as an homage to my life back home in the states. That hesitance lasted about one minute and I was quickly ripping open the lid of the cereal container and digging my hand into it’s dry, crunchy heart. A I started chewing, familiar emotions passed through my mind. If I wasn’t surrounded by harsh reminders that I was actually in Alarobia, I might have thought that I was back in Chicago, comfortably eating cereal one of the numerous occasions I had failed to successfully manage my milk-to-cereal ratio. But then I began to look around the room. The lone candle illuminated the reality that I was, as a matter of fact, not in Kansas anymore. The light flickered and reflected off of my Peace Corps provided water filter that sits like a shinny, silver tower on my desk and serves as a constant reminded that not even the water here is clean. Then I notice the countless balled up pieces of tissue and empty cough drop containers, the remnants of the toll this new ecosystem has taken on my fragile, western-world body. My eyes then moved on to the enormous Antondroy dialect book that I received today (6 weeks into training mind you, and weeks after everyone else had already received their region specific language books). It’s a book that makes War and Peace look like Clifford the Big Red Dog Goes to School. And finally I catch, on the corner of my desk, the small, brown, silver capped, paper tube that is hypothetically meant to transport my feces‘, if the doctors deem it necessary. But the taste of the Frosted Flakes was so strong that those familiar feelings were still lingering, despite my foreign surroundings. With each bite my mind remembered more and more. “Oh yeah, I did used to sleep without a mosquito net hanging over me every night (you get used to it pretty quick though, I guess). And I didn’t used to be forced to eat the same main dish 3 times a day, 7 days a week. And I used to be able to shower more than 3 times a week,”. Ok, so what if I actually didn’t, but I at least I could have.

With a Little Help From My Friends - The Beatles

July, 19, 2008

(Thinking about the next 2 years)

From the Journal of Derek Rury

There has been a lot of talk about our sites and what the next two years prospectively will bring with site visit nearing and training rocketing towards it’s final stages. People have expressed their concerns about loneliness at site because we have all gotten so close over the past 5 weeks. But I have no doubts that everyone will readjust to their sites just as they adjusted to life here in Alarobia. But there is a necessary amount of courage needed to move to an area where there not be a single familiar face and where people will hardly understand a word you say. And with that courage comes adventure. Since I am going to a new Peace Corps site, I may be the only American, or even foreigner living in my town. I, also, may be the first American to set foot in Beloha. I am also the furthest member of our stache from any other member. Although I may sound silly calling myself a pioneer, there is an inevitable, unique feeling of discovery attached to this situation. Let’s hope I’m up for the challenge.

It is very exciting thining about site visit and ultimately instillation down in Beloha. One of the main reasons is that Beloha is located in what is widely regarded as the most unique region of Madagascar with an equally unique culture and dialect. I have heard that the Antandroy dialect is almost a completely different language than Malagasy. That’s great for me, considering that I do not have a dialect teacher here in training. But I’m not worried. Not having a lot of information is party of the adventure. But from what I do know, the Androy region of Madagascar is generally considered to most “authentic” African part of the island. One volunteer fondly referred to is as “real Africa”. The type of Africa where tribe members pop out of the bush, brazing spears and donning nothing but loincloths. But Madagascar is not universally considered part of Africa. We were told that the Malagasy people are often offended when they are referred to as being “African”. Not what I was expecting when I was assigned here. But cultural adjustment is not an issue I plan on needing help with. I relish the idea of going to the most rural, under developed, culturally and linguistically unique part of an island that is already all of those things itself. Well, let the adventure begin.

The Adventure - Angels and Airwaves

July 16, 2008

(Teaching in Madagascar)

From the Journal of Derek Rury

Since I am so much more comfortable here now than when we first arrived, it feels like a smack in the face when I am reminded that we are, in fact, in a resource deprived, third world country. These instances are often very abrupt, and leave an extremely unromantic, sour taste in my mouth. It’s utterly fulfilling and even uplifting to see students succeed in class here. Students that have no textbooks. Students who have to go home right after school because they need to help their gamily work in the rice paddies. Students who write so diligently in their notebooks, in perfect cursive, but don’t have shoes to wear to school. With all of these factors, some students still shine as very intelligent, young people. But that feeling is almost completes shattered when you see that child outside of the classroom, but rather on the street, away from the academic arena that they thrive in. With this new backdrop, it is hard to se their excellence because of what surrounds them. The lack of opportunity. The lack of support. The lack of structure. There was a time when I went out to the kabone, and saw a balled up piece of paper with some sort of school writing on it, which had obviously been used to clean a certain part of the body. This, at times, seems like an appropriate metaphor for how education is sometimes viewed in this region. But in this vivid vision of the student in the street, there are so many things that distract someone from observing the student’s brilliance. There is meat, hanging on hooks, completely exposed to anything that wants to touch it, whether it be clean or bacteria infected. There are chickens leading their chicks through a gutter, leaving the weak one at the end of the line to die. There is a rotting carcass of a dog that has been there for almost a month, without being touched at all. How can a child, an intelligent, gifted child thrive in this environment. But the thought quickly passes as I hear one of the many kids I have taught the past two weeks say “Hello Mr. Derek. How are you?”. I turn to see a small group of them smiling, one holding a Frisbee. The moment then completely passes, and my impression of life here in Madagascar begins to clear up again.

Under Pressure - David Bowie and Queen

July 14, 2008

(The Malagasy language and people)

From the Journal of Derek Rury

I am doing incredibly better than I anticipated with the language, even though I didn’t anticipate that I would actually have a problem. But I would never have dreamed that I would have type of proficiency in a foreign language after only 4 weeks, considering my lifelong metaphorical wrestling match with French, in which it has, more often than not, had me in a Full Nelson. But with Malagasy, it’s like an addiction. I have to know. Whenever I say something to my family and their eyes widen and their mouths open with shock and amazement, it just makes me want learn more. Communicating with my family could be the most surreal part of this entire experience, especially considering that only a few weeks ago, when I strutted into joint, I could only say the same five words, and even that was a struggle. Now I can have full, thought out conversations, no stuttering, no pausing, in my casual tone of voice. No strain. Natural. There are times at the dinner table, which is lit only by a single candle sitting on an old French condensed milk can, when after a long, usually funny conversation, I zone out and look around. My mind has to process what is actually happening. “Is this really it? Am I really doing this?”, I ask myself. Then my mom says “vary?”, which means rice, and I look at the table and I see that, somehow, all of the dishes of food have managed to surround my plate, as my family smiles in anticipation. Then my mind says, “yes, you are doing this,” as I dig deep into the rice bowl and start to pile on my fourth serving. My family then gives off a small exhale of relief, as if their purpose in life is fully contingent on my acceptance of their help and aide. It’s ironic since that is exactly the reverse of what I hope to accomplish during my service. But fair is fair. They just beat me to the punch this time.

Where the Streets Have No Name - U2

July 11, 2008

(Green-ness)

From the Journal of Derek Rury

I had another short, out-of-mind experience today. I had been laying down for about an hour and when I sat up, I just stared out the window. Not looking at anything in particular, but rather just seeing the unadultered mid day light blast the green of a leaf into my eyes. This stimulus was compared to the dimness of that same color coming from the large French Sprite bottle I had bought earlier sitting right in front of the window. The contrast of the pure natural color to the manufactured sparkle of the glass was mesmerizing. But my mesmerization was caused not simply because of these two objects sharing the same generic color quality, but rather by my mind finding both comfort and frustration in each, summing up my failures and triumphs so far here in this country. My body and mind are struggling in utter happiness.

Across the Universe - The Beatles

July 12, 2008

(Frisbee)

From the Journal of Derek Rury

Frisbee. There is no way that I would have anticipated that one word would create such a smooth transition from one culture to another and have such an effect on my service. I mean, people here have a new word in their language because of this small plastic disc. The kids here love Frisbee so much, that I now have a posse that follows me around just waiting for me to break out the disc and start a game right then and there. Kids that I have never seen before know me name, and there re times when I am walking though town and I hear a child’s voice whisper the word “Frisbee” and when I look to see who said it, it takes me a minute to notice the small, smiling faces hiding behind a door. Ever since the Frisbee made it’s first appearance here in Alarobia, I have been king of the soccer field, or at least that’s what it seems like at times. Little kids pop their heads around the corner of our training center and smile when I catch their eye. They then mime throwing a Frisbee trying to get me to come out and play. I hold up fine fingers and say “dimi”. They nod, smile and scurry away. I don’t’ even need to say a word as I leave the center. I merely have to walk the 40 or so yards to the soccer field and kids pop out of every crevice, hopping and skipping in anticipation. It feels good to be appreciated. Even though it’s only as a liason to a piece of plastic.

We has another intense game today. I have always been on the same team as Rina and Fetrasou because I want to connect with them, since they are my host brothers, and we have been. It is incredible to see how good they are at Frisbee now. I see them playing catch here and there, because they have become used to asking me to use it while I am at class, and to describe what I see as impressive would not even come close to doing it justice. They are incredible. And only after a couple of weeks. I even asked Rina the other day to show me how the throws a certain way so well. I am very proud of my brothers and, in turn, I hope they are of me. As we all left the soccer field after the game today, I asked a fellow volunteer if he wanted to play tomorrow. “Yeah!” he said, as if we were two kids going home for supper after a long day of playing baseball at a neighborhood park. At dinner, I asked Rina and Fetrasou if they wanted to play tomorrow as well. They said “yeah!”, as if playing ultimate Frisbee made them happier than any other game. Fetrasou’s eyes squinted as he smiles. But Rina couldn’t keep his from growing, like a reaction to some sort of astonishing enlightenment. Maybe it actually was. Maybe it actually was for me.

I was sitting in a C.E.G. classroom, observing a fellow trainee teach a 5eme class about “games” and one of the most astonishing things happened. When asking what some examples of games where, amidst the well know football, volleyball and basketball, a student called Frisbee, a word that did not even exist in Madagascar just weeks ago. We have already left our mark on this culture. And so what if it’s just a Frisbee.

Join Together - The Who

June 25, 2008

(The Plague)

From the Journal of Derek Rury

This place still has the plague. I mean, really? The plague? It is actually kind of cool. As stupid as it sounds, I had always though about the idea of getting some foreign disease or sickness and how cool it would be to tell people that I once had it. Until recently, Malaria had seemed like the illness that would get me the most street cred. But the plague is like the mother of all sicknesses. If I got the plague, I would have the perfect conversation starter, “Umm…..So I had the plague. Yeah, that’s right. THE Plague,”. I mean, there aren’t personifying poems about HIV or cholera. Only the plague. And if I did manage to contract the plague and die from it, just imagine the historical context my death would automatically be placed in. Whenever people would watch period movies about medieval Europe that had people dying of the plague, they could say, “My friend died of that. The plague finally got him.” It’s kinda’ like saying, “Yeah, Steve isn’t with us anymore. Musket shot right to the chest. But that’s what you get for getting involved in a revolution,” or “Have you heard about Bob? He got the guillotine. Shouldn’t look at the king that way, I guess,”. We went over the symptoms of the plague today, and let me tell you, I can’t wait ‘till I get a marble sized growth around my inflamed crotchal lymph nodes. All I would need to do is buy an old, dirty cloak and work on walking while dragging my left leg.

Dysentary Gary - Blink 182

June 22, 2008

(Living conditions)

From the Journal of Derek Rury

Let’s be honest. There were many jokes made about my future living conditions before I left. But I guess, at the time, I didn’t really mind Everybody wanted to point out that I would be living in a hut with no electricity and I would be shitting a hole for two years. Well, am very happy to write that at least one of those things isn’t true. I do not live in a hut. And although my house my not have electricity, my host mom has provided me with all the candles and matches a young man could ask for.

The house is actually even better than what I expected, especially my room. I had heard that trainees would barely have any personal space while living with their host families because their homes are so small and are more than likely already filled with a large family. That isn’t entirely the case with me. Even though it is not in any way advanced (the kitchen is a 5’ by 6’ room, and we use actual fire lit by twigs gathered each morning to boil water), but I would consider my bedroom, and the dining room to be luxurious by my expectations. There is also a nice veranda on the second floor, which is where all of the human rooms are (the chicken get the first floor. That’s right. They get their own floor). There seem to be more rooms downstairs, but I have yet to get a good luck at things down there, due to the large, bamboo chicken coop that blocks most of the view. I have been living here for over 4 days now and there is no way I could sketch a remotely accurate blueprint of my house.

But with the bad, there is also a lot of good. There is, of course, the view. Rivo is a farmer, so she lives on the more agricultural part of Alarobia, which gives her access to an amazing view of the valley that neighbors the town. My room has a window that overlooks that valley. And even though it has been mostly overcast everyday, it is still beautiful. Rivo is also and awesome cook. I would not say that she prepares food particularly better than others here, but she is pressing all of the right buttons when it comes to what she’s been serving. Rice. Beans. Beef. Cooked veggies. Rice. Sausage. Rice. Bread. Rice. This is perfect for me. If I had the capability, this is pretty much exactly how I would eat back home (and by capability, I mean a deprived access to cereal and milk). So that is one thing that I do not have to worry about. My mom takes care of me.

But like I said before, only one of those two things weren’t true. And even though the clothes I wear are in a perpetual state of uncleanliness (it truly seems that if I put on a seemingly clean piece of clothing, it feels it must instantly become dirty in order to fit in with the environment. Like a chameleon. Except not nearly as cool), this is not nearly as bad as having to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Many people referred to my prospective bathroom as a hole in the ground, and they were right, although it is dressed up a bit. It is not merely a hole in the ground. It’s like an outhouse actually. But instead of a toilet, it’s a hole in the ground. I don’t think I mind going #1 in the hole (it’s actually more convenient than a toilet. Nobody cares if you splash some here or there), and after a few times, #2 isn’t so bad either. But is’ the vomit inducing stench combined with the insanely unsanitary nature of this outhouse that makes going poddy completely and utterly undesirable, dreadful even, at times. But like I said, going to the kabone isn’t as bad as many people think. It’s just stuff like having to lift up my pants when I squat so that they don’t drag on the urine drenched floor that gets me. It is something I just need to get used to. I need to become more sanitation conscious in general too. I need to wash my hands several times a day and make sure everything I come into contact with has been cleaned. An impossible task I know, but trying our best to do so is mandated by the two Peace Corps doctors here in Madagascar. They have used every trick in the book trying to scare us, even a story about a former volunteer who gagged up a nearly one-foot-long tape worm. I nearly gagged up my 10 mile long small intestines when I heard that. I will never look at another earth worm the same way again. But going to the kabone during the day is not nearly as disturbing as the option provided at night. Volunteers are strongly encourage (required) to stay in their host homes at night on the account of rabid dogs and malaria carrying mosquitoes. So since we can’t go out at night, which of course is when my body has been trained to go, we are provided with a bucket, essentially. I never thought that going #2 would be a problem for anybody, but I didn’t take a dump for nearly 3 days. I still admit to myself that I refuse to go #2 in my poe at night. They give it a cute name like poe to make it seem like it’s not actually a shit bucket. But it essentially is a shit bucket. It’s also used as a trash can. Great. So I am expected to use my poe, filled with my own waste and the waste of whatever I use, and go back to sleep with it just sitting and stewing in the corner of my room. Like I said, no #2 in the poe. I am going to make that my slogan for the next 2 years.

Welcome to Paradise - Green Day

June 16, 2008

(Spacing out)

From the Journal of Derek Rury

There was an instance this morning when we were eating breakfast and I turned around and looked behind me at the pibasy tree in the front yard, trying to temporarily escape the potential awkwardness that followed all of us finishing our meal, leaving us with nothing to do but sit and stare at our plates. But in that instance, I went from being in that moment, to having a completely random, foreign thought invade my thought process. It may have been about baseball, or even pecan pie, but it was transplanted into my cognitive process so fast, that I could not be sure. In that instance, I did not know who Rivo, Rina and Fetrasou were. I did not know where Alarobia was or what it even looked like. I did not know what “mitovi” or “kabone” meant. But as soon as that interrupting thought came, it vanished. And when I turned around, my mind almost went into shock trying to process all of the information I have gained since I left home at once. For a few seconds, I had to calm myself down and pray that they wouldn’t ask me anything that would require more than a head tilt and a grunt. If they did, I probably would have just sat there with the feeling you have as a child (or adult, apparently, if you’re me) when you are called on by the teacher for the answer and you have absolutely no clue what they are talking about. Except I live with these people. I have supplanted the head of the household from her master bedroom and placed all of my well being in their already burdened hands. Now I was going to seem like an ungrateful foreigner who didn’t even bother to learn their language to the extent to where I can respond to a simple, childish question. I was praying she wouldn’t ask me anything. But after another half minute of silence, she spread out her arm, smiled and motioned me to the door. She knew.

Across the Universe - The Beatles

June 14, 2008

(Living with host family)

From the journal of Derek Rury

I feel that some of the initial sparkle of living with my homestay family is starting to come off. Not because of anything they have done. They are still as nice, generous and amazing as always, but I have began to think about how I am just some foreigner living in their home (and probably their biggest and nicest bedroom) who needs to be fed three times a day and have everything explained to him like a baby, very slow and repetitive. I feel I may have become simply a burden on their lives. Also, there are so many things I want to tell them, show them, teach them and learn from them, but I can’t. I want to show them what kind of person I am. I want them to hear my voice when I am simply talking casually, not spitting out memorized phrases (which I still screw up, judging by their reactions sometimes). But we are working on it. They understand how difficult it is for my to be in this situation. Fetrasou (15) and Rina (19) have been very helpful with the language. Not necessarily in understanding every word, but by talking slow and trying to say words that I know. They have been very patient. I can tell that they want to be able to talk to me. I do most of my talking with the two boys, but not as much as I would like with my host mom, Rivo. She obviously has more responsibility than her sons, being a single mother, running a farm and caring for her children and her grandchildren, but I would still love to be able to have a nice conversation with her. Not a conversation between a host mom and a volunteer, but rather a Malagasy woman and an American man (if I can call myself that). I am still waiting for that level of communication, but I know it will be enlightening. I want to compare stories of childhood foolishness. I want to hear about the town she grew up in and how she wound up here in Alarobia. I want to know what happened to her husband. I can see the 40 plus years she has lived in her toothless smile and the stories she has told, and the stories I am sure she has yet to tell. Her eldest daughter is 24 which means she was 17 when she gave birth. I can only imagine what life for a 17-year-old new mother, living and still growing up in this country was like. I am sure that she takes much pride that she has raised such a happy and healthy family, but I wonder if she ever things about life and what it was like and what it could have been like. Perhaps she doesn’t. Maybe there is no reference point. Whatever it is, I am certainly happy I have been adopted into her very loving family. I just hope I can find someway to repay them for my intrusion.

Baba O' Riley - The Who

So, I'm back in Tana about to head down to Beloha for site visit. I am trying to upload all of these pictures, and let me tell ya', it's pretty friggin' hard. I'm passing up dinner so I could be on the internet right now. You guys better enjoy this! I'll put up more posts as soon as I figure out how to transfer documents from my flash drive. I want to see some posts! Enjoy the pics!

(Madagascar sunset)

(Crazy Madagascar tree)

(View from my window)

(That's where I will be living for the next 2 years. Get used to it people!)

(Fetrasou, 15, and Rina, 19. The battle continues in Madagascar!)

(My temporary home)

Changes - David Bowie

June 14, 2008

(First week with Host family)

From the journal of Derek Rury

"Today was the first day that I really got the chance to observe and appreciate the scenery and landscape, even though it was cold and rainy almost the entire day. The clouds eventually parted and the sky shown bright blue. This was what I was expecting, and more, to some extent. See, for our training here in Alarobia, we are on the highlands of the plateau. We are pretty far up. I can tell wer are far up because on an overcast day, everyday here so far, you can only see the bottom half of the mountains because of the clouds that cover the tops. I am no scientist and maybe this effect is created by some change in precipitation or something, but my money is on that we have a long way to fall. I also believe we are far up because I get winded walking 50 feet. But regardless of what created it, the view of the valley that Alarobia neighbors is breathtaking, weather permitting. There seem to be everlasting rows of mountains that appear, each lining up behind the last one. They actually seem more like big hills than your traditional mountain, but believe me, they are the real deal.. When the sun hits them at the right time (right before dusk) and at the right angle, they are lit up to make them appear somewhat glossy, or toylike. As if you could simply reach out a pluck a tree from the ground, or change on the houses next to the rice paddies which reflect the image of the fickle, fluffy clouds that pass overhead at a seemingly rushed pace, as if they have been instructed to only permit this view of nature's beauty for a short time so that when it does happen, people will line up to appreciate it."

(View of the mountains from the market)

(View from behind my house)

(The Misty Mountains)

Misty Mountain Hop - Led Zeepelin

June 13, 2008

(Boarding the plane to Madagascar in South Africa)

From the journal of Derek Rury

"The past day has been very interesting. The end of our South Africa journey was the first time I started to get nervous. As we boarded the plane, I was the last person to get on. I could feel my heart poundung and my nerves losing conrol. But yet again, this amazing group of people made me feel comfortable. That we were all nervous, but we were all going through this together.

When we arrived in Madagascar, I had never rarely (if ever) felt more important in my entire life. We breezed through customs, because the Peace Corps Country Director met us there. Not only was the CD there, but current Peace Corps Volunteers were there to cheer, whoop and holler at us as we exited the airport. It was hard not to feel like a superstar. Like the Beatles arriving in America. Maybe we didn't deserve it. Maybe we did. Regardless, it was a great feeling. And after traveling the world to get there, it was something we neeeded."

Where the Streets Have No Name - U2

I stare up at the view. I never expected this view. It overlooks a mountain range less than a mile away. A mountain range that seemingly is both covered with a layer of mist and tipped with low laying clouds that make it appear we are in some dream. I hear my brother come up behind me and I want to express how incredibly beautiful this is, but I cannot.

This next day in language class, I take the opportunity during a break in questions to ask my teacher for the day what the Malagasy word for 'beautifull' is. She tells me, and I smile.

That night, after dinner, I walk to the end of the varangana, and look out at the night sky. I see more stars than I thought could possibly exist. As if there were more spots of dim light than there was black space surrounding them. I hear my host brother walk up behind me again and I say softly " Tsara terehy, Rina. Tsara Terehy." He responds, "Mety. Tsara Terehy" as I hear his head nod in agreement. We both stare at the sky, me with a smile on my face.

So, I am here in Madagascar and everything has turned out expinentially better than I had expected. We are at the end of week 3 of our 10 week long Pre Service Training. It is very difficult to put everything into words right now. It is difficult to try and describe this experience without doing it a grace injustice.

I have been journaling regularly, so hopefully I will get the chance to update this blog with ammended entries. I am also sorry about the lack of photographs (even though I have taken over 600 since leaving Chicago).

But for those of you who cannot wait another seven weeks, when I will have internet again, let's go over some of the basic facts...

1. My bathroom, as a matter of face, is a hole in the ground. More like an outhouse. But still. I crap in a hole in the ground. Hope you all enjoy that one

2. I have found a roach in my food.

3. Be VERY VERY VERY (I cannot stress this enough) happy you do not have fleas

4. I have 26 new amazing friends (When you travel in an overcrowded minibus over vomit enducing turns atop a mountain, you have no choice but to bond....and get along)

5. The Malagasy people are AWESOME!!!! And very short. I am the second tallest person in my town (Next to another volunteer, who is 6'3")

6. I absolutely love it here and there is no doubt in my mind that this was the best decision of my life

7. The stars do look very different, everyday

Space Oddity - David Bowie

We leave for New York at 9:00 am tomorrow. From there it is to Senegal and then to South Africa. Then to Madagascar.

I wont be able to talk on the phone or have internet access for almost 3 months.

See you guys later.

The Last Song - All American Rejects